“One thousand years ago, Heian-kyo (modern day Kyoto), the capital city during Japan’s Heian era, 794 AD – 1185 AD) was more populous than any European city, one of the very few centers of high civilization anywhere in the world. Male members of the aristocracy vied for political favor and positions of power; daughters of aristocratic families were sent at about age fourteen to serve as companions to members of the imperial household. Because it was solely by a daughter’s marriage that a family’s status might be permanently advanced, the women serving in the imperial retinue were highly cultured and carefully educated, and they were considered aesthetic equals by the men. Once ensconced in their separate living quarters, the women had a few official duties, but for the most part they were left to their own devices. They read and exchanged copies of anthologies, prepared themselves with the help of their maids for the excitement of outings, played musical instruments or wrote for their own and each other’s entertainment, and generally kept one another and the empress they served amused. But the greatest part of their attention, it seems, was devoted to affairs of the heart: love affairs were an accepted part of courtship for unmarried women, and polygamy was the usual arrangement for men. Thus erotic love and its consequences were perennial conversational and literary topics.
For a high ranking member of the Heian court, relations with the opposite sex presented a larger range of possible outcomes and a greater flexibility than in most cultures. Although a primary marriage at an early age was often arranged by the family, a man could take as many secondary wives of official mistresses as he wished, and as many secret lovers as would accommodate him. A man might install a number of secondary wives in his home—most Heian dwellings contained several wings or compounds—or he could have several wives living in different locations. An unmarried woman might also have multiple lovers, if perhaps with greater discretion; a wife, by contrast, was confined to a single husband and was expected to remain faithful after marriage, although, as can be seen in the life of Izumi Shikibu, this was not always the case. Despite this mild double standard, Heian women were accorded a great deal of independence in romantic matters: able to own property and receive income in her own name, a woman could refuse a suitor’s advances, or, should a marriage or her position as an official “second wife” no longer suit her, end a relationship entirely through divorce or by moving away. Furthermore, since nearly all encounters between members of the opposite sexes took place within a convention of secrecy, the opinions of family or friends about one’s choices in the realm of eros might be avoided for quite a long time.
The first intimation of a new romance for a woman of the court was the arrival at her door of a messenger bearing a five-line poem in an unfamiliar hand. If the woman found the poem sufficiently intriguing, the paper it was written on suitable for its contents and mood, and the calligraphy acceptably graceful, her encouraging reply—itself in the form of a poem—would set in motion a clandestine, late-night visit from her suitor. The first night together was, according to established etiquette, sleepless; lovemaking and talk were expected to continue without pause until the man, protesting the night’s brevity, departed in the first light of the predawn. Even then he was not free to turn his thoughts to the day’s official duties: a morning-after poem had to be written and sent off by means of an ever-present messenger page, who would return with the woman’s reply. Only after this exchange had been completed could the night’s success be fully judged by whether the poems were equally ardent and accomplished, referring in image and nuance to the themes of the night just passed. Subsequent visits were made on the same clandestine basis and under the same circumstances, until the relationship was either made official by a private ceremony of marriage, or ended.
Once she had given her heart, a woman was left to await her lover’s letters and appearances at her door at nightfall. Should he fail to arrive, there might be many explanations—the darkness of the night, inclement weather, inauspicious omens preventing travel, or other interests. Many sleepless nights were spent in hope and speculation, and, as evidenced by the poems in this book, in poetic activity. Throughout the course of a relationship, the exchange of poems served to reassure, remind, rekindle or cool interest, and, in general, to keep the other person aware of a lover’s state of mind. At the same time, poetry was a means of expressing solely for oneself the uncertainties, hopes, and doubts which inevitably accompanied such a system of courtship, as well as a way of exploring other personal concerns.”
“No significant experience was considered complete without its accompanying poem, and conversely, the desire to give an experience formal expression in poetry was itself the mark of the presence of deep emotion for an educated person.”
As one Heian era author explained: “It is poetry which effortlessly moves the heavens and the earth, awakens the world of invisible spirits to deep feeling, softens the relationship between men and women, and consoles the hearts of fierce warriors.”
The primary poetry form from this era (and still popular today) was the tanka, 31 syllables in a 5-7-5-7-7 scheme. Some people wonder why these poems don’t rhyme. According to Hirshfield: “the fact that all words in Japanese end with one of a relatively small number of vowels [my side-note: here’s a sampling of the Japanese alphabet: a i u e o, ka ki ku ke ko, na ni nu ne no, sa shi su se so…etc] precludes the use of rhyme as it is employed in other languages: only a large variety of possible end sounds allows their duplication to become a source of ingenuity and surprise, and, hence, aesthetic pleasure.”
I lived in Japan for several years and really loved their culture. If you surf around this blog you'll see I've experimented with Tanka, and it's shortened, perhaps more recognizeable to western eyes form: haiku. I don't want to mislead, not all Tanka were written to describe romantic feelings, however, that is the focus of this book.
Here are a couple sample poems from “The Ink Dark Moon” (in the original Japanese these follow the 5-7-5-7-7 format, Hirshfield - wisely I think - did not constrict herself to the syllable count while translating, and I feel she captured the tone and spirit of each poem beautifully):
Seeing you is the thread
that ties me to this life—
if that knot
were cut this moment,
I’d have no regret
------------------------
Awake tonight
with loneliness
I cannot keep myself
from longing
for the handsome moon
------------------------
The way I must enter
leads through darkness to darkness—
O moon above the mountains’ rim,
please shine a little further
on my path
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